


Centuries - A Songfic

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Centuries (Fall Out Boy), Depression, Gen, I Made Myself Cry, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Songfic, Suicide, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-16 21:51:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3504047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan's broken and depressed and insane. Phil can't fix him. Nobody can fix him.<br/>Even the knife can't fix him.</p><p>My songfic of Centuries by Fall Out Boy, featuring Dan and Phil.<br/>Major trigger warnings for self-harm and suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Centuries - A Songfic

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this whilst listening to the song, hearing the lyrics and pausing it to write. I recommend you read it in much the same way. The earlier paragraphs can be quite long but the ending definitely feels better read whilst listening to the music, so if you don't own Centuries open a new tab and search Centuries on Youtube. Please?  
> Alternatively, you can read this and then listen to the song, or read this the way I recommended above (pausing a lot) and then listen to the song the whole way through. Enjoy (or just hold off any serious emotion)!

"Da da da dah da da da dah da. . ."  
Dan stepped forward, concentrating hard on staying perfectly balanced. It was his new obsession, something to spend his time doing while he waited for the end.

"Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold. . ."  
It was funny; he could never imagine himself doing what whe was right now. Even when he was a child, he couldn't picture it. It wasn't the sort of thing Dan would do.

But then again, he was a different Dan now. 

"You will remember me, remember me for centuries. . . "  
The wind cut into his slender figure hard, pushing his legs forward. The force of it stung, but it wasn't too bad.

He'd felt worse. Much, much worse.

"And just one mistake. . ."  
It was three months ago to the day. He remembered it with shocking clarity, remembered it so vividly it hurt.

The bathroom door's lock fitted with a satisfying click. It was a dirty bronze, spotted with rust on the side. You need to clean that, he had thought, pushing the knife through his skin. It's filthy, filthy. He stared into the mirror. You are filthy. You are scum. The knife ripped its way through his skin, shoving deeper, deeper, serrating the exposed insides of his arm. You are-

There was a different sort of blood on the floor, deeper, richer. Dan stared at it, not taking anything in. He dimly heard a voice in his head: 'That's probably a major artery you've torn. Stupid, selfish little Dan. Can't even cut himself without getting it wrong. You can't, can you?"

There was blood on his hands too, Dan noticed, the world lurching and fuzzing up in front of him. It was deep red, so dark it was nearly purple, and more was throbbing from his exposed arm. Shouldn't it be hurting?

Oh yeah. Pain. 

That was the moment his memory stopped.

"We'll go down in history - remember me for centuries. . ."  
He stepped forward again, spitting on the rough surface under his feet. Three months and it still hurt. What was he? A coward? The voice came again. 'Scaredy, useless little Dan. Can't even remember some blood without shaking.'

"No it's nothing wrong with me. . ."  
He was sure he hadn't been like this before, sure he had been sane just months earlier. Maybe he hadn't. Maybe he had.

"The kids are all wrong, the stories are off. . ."   
Phil flashed into his mind again. Dan slowly, deliberately ignored him. He had left Phil weeks ago - maybe not physically, but mentally and emotionally. He had cried a little, but he ignored the temptation to come running back to him, to sob into his t-shirt as Phil tried to fix him. Phil could never fix him. Nobody could fix him.

"Heavy metal broke my h-h-heart. . "  
He was broken.

He was damaged.

Daniel James Howell had already died, and he knew it.

"The bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints. . ."  
He would've just hurt Phil, would've broken his heart too. That was what he argued, what he told himself again and again. He left, and possibly the last piece of himself died.

"Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold. . ."   
The wind buffeted him. He tried to ignore it. 

Black tee flapping, he took another small step closer.

"I was only born inside my dreams. . ."  
This was his reality now. This twisted, dark nightmare? This was his world.

A small tear traced the outline of his cheekbone, more sunken than it had been before. Another regret, another sign of failure. The voice hissed inside him. 'You're sick Dan. You're bizarre and grotesque and just wrong. Your sanity's in tatters, your life is a ghost. You are a ghost. Irrelevant. Useless."

"My shadow's over you. . ."  
Dan let the voice speak and it told him things. That was how it had worked. But the voice had told him worse and worse things - or were they truer and truer? Slowly, slowly, he had rotted, and only when it was far too late had he realised that. He began to move forward, before hesitating slightly. 

"You're a cherry blossom. . ."  
'Dan,' the voice called mockingly, 'you hesitated. Remember?' Dan swallowed slightly and nodded. Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a fine, shining razor. It was gorgeous in the sunlight.

"Just one mistake is all it will take. . ."  
Where will it look the worst? Dan thought. The voice had fallen silent, but now it was just him. Just Dan. Cruel, crazy Dan, alone in his head. Alone in the worse place he could be. As inspiration hit, the voice smiled.

Reaching up, Dan delicately traced a line down his cheek, feeling the razor sing through his tender skin. The cut opened.

Despite everything, he winced.

"We've been here forever. . ."  
Another cut, to punish him, and another and another and oh, what a shame, Dan's crying now, that's three more and another and. . .

"Here's the frozen proof. . ."  
He had finished. Stumbling forward, he dropped the razor, the tears he couldn't stop biting into his freshly-scarred skin. The voice whispered maliciously in his head. 'Go on then, admire your handiwork. I know you want to, Dan. I know. . .'

He didn't have a choice. Grabbing the razor blade again he stared into it, ignoring the savage cut it made across his palm.

"I could scream forever, we are the poisoned youth. . ."  
A desperate face stared back, eyes sunken, darkened by despair. A skeletal face stared back, cheekbones thrusting through pallid, tight skin. Dan's face stared back, bleeding and broken.

Spelled out with sadistic slashes of the razor were three words, stained with tears and sticky with blood. Three words. 'Good Dan,' cooed the voice. 

I AM DYING, said the words cut across his skin.

"Some legends are told. . ."  
He stepped forward again.

"Some turn to dust or to gold. . ."  
Again, closer.

"But you will remember me. . ."  
Only a few more steps left and he was crying, crying like a baby. Why was he crying?

"Remember me for centuries. . ."  
Hurry up, he thought, wiping away his bloodied tears impatiently and- oh no, he was crying again, even harder this time.

"And just one mistake is all it will take. . ."   
He stood and wept, wept for everything he knew and had known, loved and had loved. He was going, and he had only just realised that. He was leaving everything behind, and he was terrified and nervous and so, so achingly sad.

"We'll go down in history. . ."  
He cried until he could cry no more. Eyes thick with tears, head thick with thoughts, he stepped forward. He gave himself up. 

"Remember me. . ."  
It was too late.

"And just one mistake is all it will take. . ."  
He was going, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"We'll go down in history. . ."  
He stepped forward.

"Remember me for centuries. . ."  
Daniel James Howell, former Youtuber and radio star, former best friend and companion of Philip Michael Lester, former friend and son and nephew and colleague, former person, looked down from the edge. He jumped.

His screams were lost to the passing wind.


End file.
